Role Reversal
by Artemis Silverbow
Summary: Mary Morstan reflects on the friendship between her husband and Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Finally complete. Yes, REALLY.
1. Mary

I would dearly love reviews. Also, this is the first fan fic I've ever posted, so please be gentle. If you feel the need to say it's utter crap than please also say WHY it's utter crap - my writing isn't likely to improve without specific gory details.

Special thanks to MP and JB for beta reading and general encouragement.

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one (darn it). I'm just amusing myself (and hopefully others) with SACD's characters.

Please note: I've made a few assumptions in this fic concerning things not specifically stated (or disproved) in the canon. Other than that, this story is intended to agree with canon.

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**Role Reversal**

**Chapter 1: Mary**

I never expected to have my husband entirely to myself.

Any woman who marries a doctor and expects to have a monopoly of his time and attention is painfully naive, to say the least. A man may belong to a woman. But a doctor? A doctor belongs also to his patients.

But I had not quite expected to be sharing my husband as I did, had not realized the extent to which _my_ John was also _his_ Watson.

It is no strange thing for a doctor to work long hours, to be thinking still of his patients even after he has gone home to his wife, or to be called away from that home and wife at any hour of the day or night.

But my doctor was also a chronicler, a biographer, a partner, and a friend. A friend of perhaps the most remarkable man in London. Certainly my dear John considered him so. How many times did a telegram from Mr. Holmes send him almost literally running out the door?

Most times he pretended, for my sake, I think, to be irritated by the apparent imperiousness and capriciousness of the missives. But I knew better. I saw the sparkle in his eye-a sparkle I was myself powerless to evoke.

I wanted to hate Mr. Holmes, at times. He stole my poor doctor away from me for hours and days at a time, drove him near to distraction by his very...singular...habits (not the least of which was his use of that detestable cocaine), and wore him to a thread chasing after mysteries and dangerous criminals day and night, in any and all weather.

Not everyone has your energy and constitution, Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Nor your quite unnatural disregard for danger. Do be kind enough to think of others from time to time!

But I could not hate him truly, however much I may have wished to when it was on his account that so many of my days and nights were solitary and anxious.

It was loyalty to his dear friend, I think, not any festive desire of his own, that brought him to our wedding. John, to his credit, had eyes only for me on that day. I almost would that I could say the same.

Mr. Holmes did nothing improper or out of the ordinary, yet his very presence lurked at the edge of my awareness like a cloud threatening the sun with shadow. I had a notion then of the division that would come later, and I felt a thin seed of resentment begin to take root in my heart.

It was after John and I had exchanged our vows, our rings, and been pronounced "man and wife," that I saw what few people have ever been privileged to see. And I am quite sure I will remember it to my dying day.

After I was no longer his client, Mr. Holmes had seldom looked at me, save in passing or when it was utterly unavoidable. It as I turned to depart the church as Mrs. John H. Watson, that our eyes met.

It was only for the merest moment, but in that instant I seemed to see to the very depths of his desolate soul. He broke the contact as swiftly as it had been made, the cool, calculating, mask he showed to the world dropping flawlessly back into place. But it was too late, for I had already glimpsed his heart.

His only true friend had bound himself to me, and there was not a single thing he could do about it. Love was a mystery that he, for all his knowledge and skill and proud logic, could not unravel or explain. There was a part of his friend's life he would never, could never, share. He accepted it with a finality that was logical, reasonable, and utterly heartbreaking.

And my resentment died a quick, and not entirely painless, death.

And so, I endured the abrupt summons, the loneliness, and the anxiety. It grew no easier with practice, but my dear doctor always returned to me, perhaps a little the worse for wear, but veritably dripping in the glow of adventure that I knew helped to carry him through the dark days that are often the unfortunately inevitable result of his profession. I grew to consider it a small price to pay for his happiness.

I have been thinking much about my husband's happiness, of late.

I find also that I have a new reason to desire to hate Mr. Holmes, this one untempered by any sense of pity for his own feelings.

All my pity is reserved for my poor John.

It has been more than six months since he returned from the continent with the news of Mr. Holmes' death. To look at him, to truly see him, as I can, you could be forgiven for thinking it had occurred only yesterday.

He tries to put a bold face forward, to hide the devastation I know he feels, but he does no better at concealing his still fresh pain than he did at hiding his anticipation when one of those commanding telegrams arrived.

The man is _dead_, and yet his shadow still casts a darkness over our lives.

But not all the darkness is on Mr. Holmes' account.

I, too, have put on a bold face-hiding from John my exhaustion and ...other...things, that I might not add to his worries. But he will notice soon. Even crippled by grief he is too fine a doctor not to notice, and I dread the day, the moment, of his realization.

I coughed blood into my handkerchief yesterday morning.

It was only a small spot, but it has happened again today, and I have not been a doctor's wife this long not to know what it must mean.

There is no cure, no real hope.

Perhaps Mr. Holmes has been kinder to my husband than it is in my power to be.

Mr. Holmes' death, however painful to his Watson, was, at least, quick. My John will have to watch his beloved Mary waste away, die by inches, and all his skill and knowledge powerless to prevent it.

How I wish Mr. Holmes were still alive...still sweeping my husband off on adventures that I could never hope to share. I am certain it would help to ease the pain I know he will suffer with my passing.

Almost against my will I find myself thinking of Mr. Holmes more and more. There was a connection between us-a connection in the person of one Dr. John H. Watson-and I do not think it a lie to say that we two knew him better than anyone else in all the world. My heart breaks to think of him deprived of his two closest friends.

I must be practical now, however much my current inclinations run toward the maudlin or, indeed, even the hysterical. I will not have as much time as I desired with my John, so I must make the best use of what time I do have left.

Mr. Holmes would approve, I dare say.

Unfortunate that it can change nothing. Not my illness, and not Mr. Holmes' untimely departure from this life. How bitterly ironic that it is I, and not his Watson, who shall follow the detective this last time.

End chapter 1

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P.S. I'm looking for a Sherlockian beta (something that, sadly, neither MP nor JB know much about). If anyone is interested please feel free to contact me. I'm not an expert(at grammer, writing, _or_ Sherlockia), but I'd be happy to reciprocate. 


	2. John

Thank you very, VERY much to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. I _still_ dearly love reviews. And, once again, if you feel the need to say this is utter crap than please also say WHY it's utter crap.

Special thanks to JB and HoVis for beta reading, canonical checking, and general encouragement.

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one (darn it). I'm just amusing myself (and hopefully others) with SACD's characters.

Please note: I've made a few assumptions in this fic concerning things not specifically stated (or disproved) in the canon. Other than that, this story is intended to agree with canon.

**

* * *

Role Reversal**

**Chapter 2: John**

One grows weary of being kept in the dark - though I should think I'd be well accustomed to it by now.

_He_ often preferred to hold his conclusions in reserve, then unveil them with a flourish at the moment of greatest effect, his timing as flawless as his reasoning.

Once I might well have resented such dramatics. Now my world seems infinitely duller for their lack. It is difficult to believe that I miss such a thing.

But I do-and much else besides.

At times it seems I miss everything connected with _him_. The cluttered rooms, the odd hours, the strange clients, even the acerbic wit and black moods.

To my very great surprise, I even miss arguing about the cocaine. I would almost - _almost _- be willing to supply it to him myself if it meant seeing him again. To know that he was indeed alive, and again keeping watch over London.

The music hall has lost its charm. I was never the aficionado _he_ was, but now it sounds...hollow, flat. It is as though the life and beauty has gone out of it, and all that remains is a feeble shadow of what once was, and can never be again.

Whatever pleasure I once took in my pipe is gone. I have found it exceedingly lonely to smoke alone. The tobacco tastes of ashes, and raw memories.

It is almost too painful for words to thumb through my unpublished notes, to say nothing of actually turning them into stories. And I think I would feel myself a modern Judas to receive money for transcribing _his_ cases now.

It seems utterly wrong not to have him sniping at me for my 'embellishment.' How strange that a writer should be so attached to his most outspoken critic.

I wonder if I shall ever pick up my pen again.

_I should have realized the letter was a ruse._ He had spoken repeatedly of his nemesis' cunning, but I, dimwitted fool that I am, did not understand. I refused to abandon him in Strasburg, in spite of the danger. I _should_ have refused to leave him at...Reichenbach. My understanding came far too late. I should _never_ have left him alone.

It is a wonder I could bear to return to practice. My profession was the key that betrayed to his death the best and wisest man I had ever known.

Surely the two of us together would have been more than a match for Moriarty. But that is a question I shall never have answered.

Mary tells me I ought not blame myself. That he _sent_ me away to protect his dearest friend. A part of me wishes to believe her. The rest deems my lingering guilt an all too fitting punishment for failing to protect _my_ dearest friend.

My dear, beloved, neglected Mary. She has been the one light in my life these six hellish months.

And that only adds to the weight on my guilty conscience.

Even without his summons to whisk me away (often all too willingly, I confess), I know I have not been the husband she deserves. I cannot help but feel she might have been happier had the Agra treasure not been scattered in the Thames.

She has never voiced any complaint, but why she tolerated the disruptions wrought upon our otherwise well-ordered lives is something I fear I shall never comprehend.

I should give up the tobacco. It is nothing more than a painful reminder of what no longer is, and Mary would be pleased. She has never said anything of the sort, but I am not unaware that she disapproves of the habit.

A token olive branch, perhaps, but an olive branch all the same. A promise that things will no longer be as they were before. That I will no longer allow my grief for the dead to so completely overshadow my love for the living. My love for my Mary.

Dear...mysterious...Mary.

I am certain now that _she_ is deeply troubled by something, has been for some time, in fact, though I was too lost in sorrow to truly see it.

I feel it is happening again. I am being deliberately kept in the dark as to the true state of things. _Protected_ against my will.

She is not the actor that he...that _Holmes_...was, but neither am I so much as half the detective.

I have taken Mary for granted far too long, though she is too kind and gentle to complain of it. If she will not, or cannot, confide her difficulty, then I shall simply have to discover it for myself. My aid and comfort are the very least of what I owe her.

End chapter 2


	3. Sherlock

Thank you very, VERY much to everyone who reviewed the first and second chapters (and please feel free to consider this an early Christmas present). I have discovered(surprise surprise) that I seem to be some sort of review addict(or is that normal for a writer?), so _please_, feed my habit. And, once again, if you feel the need to say this is utter crap than please also say WHY it's utter crap.

Special thanks to JB and HoVis for beta reading, canonical checking, and general encouragement.

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one (darn it). I'm just amusing myself (and hopefully others) with SACD's characters.

Please note: I've made a few assumptions in this fic concerning things not specifically stated (or disproved) in the canon. Other than that, this story is intended to agree with canon.

* * *

**Role Reversal**

**Chapter 3: Sherlock**

I have disappointed myself.

Not so rare an occurrence, truly, for all that Watson often seems to think me infallible. Still, all has not been in vain, so I suppose I ought not complain over much.

Moriarty is dead - dropped considerably farther than is required by law. The Napoleon of crime will trouble society no more.

I find that a rather cold, though not inconsiderable, comfort, for even now he has not yet ceased to trouble _me_.

It is not his death that weighs upon my conscience. The professor deserved to die, of that there is not the slightest doubt. And I would say so even if it had not been 'him or me.'

Foolish of him, really, to come at me as he did. Conclusive evidence that hate is as damaging to logic and reason as love.

No, I am quite content with Moriarty's demise, though I would have preferred it to be at the end of a rope, rather than over a cliff.

It is my own 'death' that troubles me. I have seen the anguish it brought to my dearest friend.

How I wanted to answer his call, to tell him his conclusions were, as usual, in error. But I could not bring myself to do it. The professor was dead, but I was convinced that danger remained - indeed, it was nearer even than I had thought. Colonel Moran was not long in making me painfully aware of his presence.

I was glad, then, that I had not revealed myself to Watson, or else my previous efforts might have been in vain.

Many times in the past, I have allowed my friend to follow me into considerable danger. My conscience pricked me for it, from time to time, particularly after his marriage to Miss Morstan.

I confess to having had some apprehension that Watson's marriage would bring an end to our association. Such was not the case, however, and I was not blind to the great gift that the former Miss Morstan, now Mrs. Watson, bestowed upon me by not interfering. I attempted to honor that gift by not taking it for granted. I fear I was not entirely successful.

I might have been wiser to leave Watson out of this 'adventure' entirely.

But I was afraid.

Never before had I thought it inevitable that an enemy should attempt to harm me through my Boswell. Moriarty was shrewd enough to think of it, and ruthless enough to attempt it. I was attacking him and his organization. Why should he not attack my friend?

England was no longer safe for me, but I dared not leave Watson alone in London. I could have cheered when he told me his wife was away, safely out of immediate reach, and I silently blessed his loyalty when he accepted my instructions without question. I acted not a moment too soon. Even with all my precautions, he was still shadowed to Victoria.

At that time, I believed it safest to keep him near me. In Strasburg, the police telegram brought me doubts, as well as unfortunate-though not altogether unsurprising-news. By Meiringen, I knew I had been mistaken. Our continued companionship was a danger to him, but well did I know he would never willingly abandon me.

The letter-bearing Swiss was an obvious blind, but I welcomed it, for it meant Moriarty's intention was to revenge himself on me, and me alone. That thought held no fear. What did I care for the threat against my own life? Moriarty was all but destroyed, and soon to be quite literally within my grasp. Watson was safe at the Englischer Hof. It was almost more than I had dared hope for.

The downfall of Moriarty should have been the zenith of my career. But even Pyrrhus, I think, could scarcely consider it a victory. I was quite willing to spend my own life in the endeavor, but I had not bargained on repaying my dear friend's trust and loyalty with this cruel deception. That it was-and still is-as much for his protection as for my own is no excuse.

For now, I must again watch from a distance. Brother Mycroft has agreed to keep me informed of Watson's circumstances, in addition to looking after a few other, trifling details. I could hardly ask for a better surrogate while I consider how best to ensnare the late professor's pet tiger.

It is, I fear, a task that will take a great deal of time. My prey is cunning, and wary from the ruin of his master. But Moran _will_ misstep. When he does, I will be waiting. Until that day, I must, of necessity, remain a silent partner.

Watson's heart, I dare say, is large enough to forgive me. The good Mrs. Watson may prove more difficult, yet I find that I cannot blame her, for it is entirely possible I may never forgive _myself_.

End chapter 3

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"Pyrrhus": (from King of Epirus (306-302 and 297-272) who defeated the Romans at Heraclea (280) and Asculum (279) despite his own staggering losses.

"Pyrrhic": (also from Dictionary,com...mostly) of or relating to or resembling Pyrrhus or his exploits (especially his sustaining staggering losses in order to defeat the Romans); a Pyrrhic victory"(aka - a victory not worth the cost of winning).

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P.S. To anyone who is interested/wondering: there will be two more chapters(one each for Mary and John) and a short epilogue before this fic is finished. I'm not sure when I'll be posting said chapters and epilogue, since they're mostly unwritten at the moment. 


	4. Mary again

IT'S...ALIVE! (Cue maniacal laughter.)

Seriously though, I am so SO sorry it's taken this long for me to post. I had good reasons, really I did - I moved into my own apartment, my computer was on the blink, my grandmother was in the hospital (she's out now :D), the Red Wings didn't make it to the Stanley Cup Finals...you get the idea. (Actually, all four of those are true, but only three would have seriously cut into my writing time. wink There were other reasons as well, but I won't bore you with them.) Anyway, here it is, and I really hope you like it. As always, thank you very, VERY much to everyone who reviewed the first three chapters. I have discovered that it apparently IS normal for a writer to be a review _addict_, so please, feed my habit. And, once again, if you feel the need to say this is utter crap than please also say WHY it's utter crap.

Special thanks to JB and HoVis for beta reading, canonical checking, and general encouragement.

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one (darn it). I'm just amusing myself (and hopefully others) with SACD's characters.

Please note: I've made a few assumptions in this fic concerning things not specifically stated (or disproved) in the canon. Other than that, this story is intended to agree with canon.

**Role Reversal**

**Chapter 4: Mary**

I had thought myself alone.

Indeed, I often felt alone-with my dear doctor consumed by his grief, and my secret weighing more and more heavily upon me.

Until that day.

Despite being so often eclipsed by the great powers of his late friend, my husband is not, in truth, an unobservant man. I was determined not to burden John with my misfortune, but he caught me in the very act of concealing it.

His touch was light, and his hand barely brushed over mine. But my hand clenched convulsively around the handkerchief, the terror of discovery causing my heart to pound wildly.

My husband is also, given the opportunity, an exceedingly gentle man. And it required every shred of that gentleness to coax from my hand the bloodied square of fabric that I had, only an instant before, meant to toss into the fire.

I could not bring myself to meet his gaze, for I feared I would lose what remained of my self control if I saw that he was angry, or worse, hurt.

He said nothing, but his warm callused hand rested gently upon my small cold one, and after a few moments I gathered the courage to look up at him.

In his eyes I saw no censure, no indignation, no irritation at my willful deception. There was only the reaffirmation of his love and abject apology for having failed to notice my distress earlier.

It shattered my composure as, I think, little else could have and I all but collapsed against him, weeping in shame and dread.

And in relief.

He held me gently until I ceased to weep, and though neither of us ever actually spoke the words aloud, from that moment on I was no longer alone.

That day seems a lifetime ago.

I would have thought the life of an invalid to be a quiet one, but I have not found it to be so. True, I am no longer troubled by the usual day to day drudgeries of life, but my time is taken by other things.

Those mornings and afternoons that I am not constrained to 'rest' are filled with visits from doctors and specialists, and, from time to time, visits _to_ sanatoria and hospitals. I alternately burn and freeze at night, and receive little benefit from what sleep I do get.

Evening has become my preferred time of the day. It is then that my own dear doctor comes to me, alone, and we speak neither of health nor of illness.

Instead, he brings forth one of his old note books and weaves for me tales of mystery and intrigue.

In this time of trial, my husband has turned, once again, to Sherlock Holmes - a man so remarkable that, even in death, it seems he has not failed to aid his friend.

But it is not in me to be jealous, even if I had the strength.

I have been well entertained these past weeks, for all that I have heard most of the stories before. It was John's habit to tell me of his adventures when he returned home after them, but I am amazed by how much I have forgotten.

I am amazed also that John has delved into memories that must surely still be painful to him. But he does not seem to mind. Indeed, he seems even to enjoy the reminiscences, though there is about him an air of quiet reverence when he tells his tales.

I am unsure what has brought about this recovery, but John is more himself now than I have seen him in many months. I am glad of it, for it seems that only one thing has not changed amid the whirlwind of doctors and hospitals and sanatoria that has engulfed my life.

My dear John - the sole fixed point in my world gone mad.

It has been his strength, his hope, that has sustained me. I do not think there is an expert in London he has not consulted, nor a hospital he has not visited. My own endurance gave out long ago, consumed by this insidious disease.

It is true that things, in general, are not as bleak as I had supposed. Many people recover.

But I will not be among them.

No one, not even John, will say as much to my face. But I see it in their eyes, hear it in their tone of voice. And I feel it in my body.

Soon, I think, there will be no more professionals visiting, save only one or two handpicked by John. Instead, my bedside will be populated by family and friends come to say their final farewells.

Although I cannot help but think I should find this impending state of affairs disturbing, I am, in truth, relieved. The uncertainty has been fully as exhausting as the illness. Death, however untimely or unfortunate, is nothing if not certain.

End chapter 4

Only one more full chapter left until this fic is FINISHED grin Unfortunately, Chapter 5 is proving to be very troublesome, so I have no idea when it will be finished. I have hopes that the wait between 4 and 5 will not be nearly as long as the wait between 3 and 4 (once again, I am so sorry for that). The good news is that I DO have the epilogue done, so I'll be able to post it and the last chapter at the same time - unless, for some reason, you all want to be kept in suspense for a few days.


	5. John again

I'm so very **VERY** sorry for taking so long to get this up. (I won't even try to explain _why _it's taken this long...) Anyway, I hope it's worth the wait, and fair warning - this is completely **unbeta'ed**, so if it's terrible it's my fault and my fault alone (although I do, of course, hope that you kind readers/reviewers won't think it's terrible).

* * *

**Role Reversal**

**Chapter 5: John**

What an illogical thing is guilt.

My late friend would doubtless dispute such a statement, countering that the _fact _of guilt can be proven or disproven by logic and evidence. And he would be quite correct.

But _facts_ have little bearing on _feelings_.

I fervently believe that there was nothing more I could have done for my poor Mary, and this opinion is seconded by my fellow medical professionals. It may, I fancy, be accorded a _fact_, and not mere wishful thinking on my own behalf.

But what I _feel_ - that I should have done more, taken note of her distress sooner, pulled some miraculous cure out of my hat as a conjurer does a rabbit. That such a thing was blatantly impossible does not in the least diminish my terrible conviction that I should have found a way to do precisely that.

I can, at least, take some small comfort in knowing that I did, from time to time, succeed in distracting my poor Mary from her illness. I owe Mycroft Holmes no small gratitude in that matter, for it was at his request that I revisited my notes.

I did not wish to reopen so fresh a wound, but I did not feel I could refuse Mycroft a record of his brother's exploits. Not when I still feel in no small way responsible for that brother's death.

I had feared it would be far too sharp a pain to bear, but to my vast relief, I found that delving again into the adventures we shared brought some small, but definite, relief to the ache in my heart.

I have no doubt that my dear Mary's joy in these 'tales' significantly increased my own enthusiasm for the project, but it was also wonderful in its own right to be so reminded of my friend at the height of his powers, instead of being haunted by the image of an abandoned Alpine-stock and a silver cigarette-case turned paper weight.

Alas, even my friend could not prevent the inevitable.

She was so brave, so composed, right to the bitter end. I felt almost ashamed of my own desire to break down and weep. I did my best to hide it from her, but she knew. I could see in her eyes that she knew. I never was able to hide anything from her...from either of them.

God help me! I have lost them _both_.

Surely a man's life is hollow-shaped, to be filled up and made whole by those people whom he loves and those things that he enjoys, or to be left empty and bitter by the lack.

It cannot go on this way - _I_ cannot go on this way. I know this to be true. And yet, I see no way to break the pattern.

I sleep, but rest and peace elude me. It seems I cannot close my own eyes without being tormented by two other, very different sets of eyes, one large and blue, the other gray and sharp.

Even torturing myself with my notes has become a habit I cannot break. Worst of all is that each case I finish still makes me feel a bit better, and I do not feel I deserve the relief. With dear Mary...gone, I cannot even placate my conscience with the excuse that she is awaiting the next installment.

I begin to feel also that I am no longer able to do justice to my friend's brilliance. My concentration wavers of late, and there is no one to point out to me my errors or inconsistencies. I have considered hiring a secretary, but it seems an unthinkable intrusion to bring an outsider into so private a matter.

Still, I do not feel I can leave this thing entirely unfinished. I will attempt to polish up those cases I have already begun and can only hope that Mycroft Holmes will be satisfied.

End chapter 5

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As I mentioned some time ago, the epilogue is already written (and beta'd), so I'll be posting that up as soon as I can get it formatted properly, and then this beast of a fic will be FINISHED! Hooray!


	6. Epilogue

**Role Reversal**

**Epilogue**

From:  
Mr. M.H.  
Pall Mall  
London, England

To:  
Mr. S. Vernet  
Main Post Office  
Montpelier, France  
To be left until called for

7 July 1893

S.,

Please see enclosed.

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**MEDICAL CERTIFICATE OF THE CAUSE OF DEATH**

**To the REGISTRAR of the SUB-DISTRICT in which the DEATH took place.**

_I hereby certify that I attended_ Mrs. Mary Morstan-Watson _aged_ 31 _last birthday ;  
__that I last saw h_er _on_ 15 March _189_ 2 _, that_ s_he died on_ 15 March _at_ 7.01 PM  
_and that the cause of h_er _death was_ pulmonary tuberculosis .  
**Signed** Dr. John H. Watson .  
**Address** -- Kensington .  
**Date** 16 March 1892 .

* * *

My apologies, dear boy, but I thought it best not to burden you with this particular piece of news until you were sufficiently near at hand to make any use of it.

M.

Finis

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And so, at much longer last than I ever intended, we come to the end of the my first Sherlock Holmes fan fic (also my first completed and/or posted fan fic ANYWHERE if you want to get picky about it). Thank you to all the people who took the time to read my story, and thank you especially if you left a review. Particular thanks also to JB and HoVis for beta help and general encouragement. Not sure if/when I'll be writing fan fics again, so please don't hold your breath (as if), but if I do pick up my proverbial quill to play in other peoples' universes once more, you can be sure I'll be posting it on FanFiction dot net. Thanks again,

Artemis


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